Chapter 6
By the time Olivia reached the Majestic’s front lobby, the pain had begun to outpace her anger.
Adrenaline had carried her out of the rehearsal room, down the corridor, and through the narrow backstage passage without allowing her to register much beyond the hard rhythm of her own steps.
Now, beneath the lobby’s pale winter light, every injury announced itself at once.
Her left wrist had swollen beneath the sleeve of her sweater, her knee burned where it had struck the floor, and her ankle—still tender from the first fall—protested each careful transfer of weight.
She stopped beside one of the marble columns and drew a measured breath, refusing to lean against it while two ushers crossed the far end of the room.
The Majestic’s lobby had been designed for spectacle.
Gilded moldings climbed toward a painted ceiling, chandeliers hung above the sweep of crimson carpeting, and mirrors multiplied the grandeur until the space appeared larger than it was.
Empty between performances, it felt cold and overexposed.
Olivia could see herself reflected from three directions: pale, disheveled, one sleeve pushed back from a swelling wrist.
Beneath the anger, beneath the humiliation of sitting on the floor while the room gathered around Lara, Olivia still wanted her husband to become the person she had expected him to be from the moment she saw the clear smear beneath the gate.
They stood in silence while an usher passed through the lobby carrying a stack of programs. She kept her eyes lowered, but Olivia felt the woman’s attention flick toward them and away.
Mason noticed too. “Let’s go home.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Liv, this isn’t the place.”
The words struck harder than he intended. The rehearsal room had not been the place. Now the lobby was not the place. Apparently there was no place in the building where Olivia could speak about what was happening without becoming the source of disorder.
She walked toward the front doors.
Mason caught up beside her but did not try to touch her again. “I’m taking you to a doctor.”
“I need ice and a wrap, not an emergency room.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know my body.”
“You also rehearsed on a sprained ankle for three days.”
“And I was right that I could.”
“You just fell again.”
“Because someone put oil on the floor.”
The doorman glanced toward them as Mason pushed open the heavy glass door. Cold rain blew into the lobby, and the sudden chill made Olivia’s wrist throb more sharply.
Their car waited beneath the marquee. Mason opened the rear door for her, and she lowered herself into the seat without accepting his offered hand. The refusal hurt them both. Olivia saw it in his face before he closed the door.
The ride uptown began in silence.
Rain streaked the windows and blurred the city into silver, yellow, and gray.
Mason sat beside, leaving enough space between them that his coat did not touch hers.
Olivia cradled her injured wrist against her chest and watched pedestrians hurry beneath umbrellas while everything she might have said crowded uselessly behind her teeth.
For most of their marriage, silence between them had been easy.
They could spend an entire evening reading in the same room, exchanging only occasional remarks, and feel closer at midnight than other couples did after hours of conversation.
This silence had weight. Every block they traveled added another layer to it.
Mason broke first. “Philip said the company was upset.”
Olivia turned from the window. “The company saw Lara cry.”
“They also saw you tell her to get away from you.”
“After she put her hands near me while I was injured.”
“She was trying to help.”
“You don’t know that.”
“And you don’t know that she wasn’t.”
His answer was immediate, almost weary. Olivia stared at him, hearing the pattern clearly now. Lara’s motives were innocent until proven otherwise. Olivia’s suspicions were harmful until proven correct.
“I saw her through the glass,” she said.
Mason’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“After she left the room, two actresses followed her. She stood in the hallway with her face against one woman’s shoulder. In the reflection, I could see her clearly.” Olivia’s throat tightened as she remembered it. “She wasn’t crying. She looked at me and smiled.”
Mason was quiet.
Hope rose despite everything. It was not proof of sabotage, but it was something. A fracture in the story he had chosen to believe.
Then he looked away. “You had just fallen. You were hurt and angry.”
Olivia felt the hope collapse. “You think I imagined it.”
“I think reflections can be misleading.”
“It was her face.”
“I’m saying you were under stress.”
“No, Mason. You are saying I cannot trust what I saw.”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I’m saying I don’t know what you saw.”
“But you know what Lara intended.”
“I know she would not try to injure you!”
“You believe that because?”
“Because I know her.”
The car seemed to grow smaller around them. Olivia looked at the rain running down the glass and understood that the argument had never been about evidence. It was about whose character Mason trusted enough to interpret generously.
“You keep saying that,” she murmured. “As though knowing someone for a long time makes them incapable of wanting what you have.”
“What exactly do you think she wants?”
The question sounded like a challenge. Olivia turned back to him slowly.
“My role. My credibility in that company. Your sympathy.” She watched his face change at the last one and continued before he could interrupt. “Perhaps more. I don’t know yet.”
Mason’s jaw tightened. “There it is.”
“What?”
“What you’ve been trying not to say since the beginning.”
Olivia understood. “You think this is jealousy.”
“I think you’ve never been comfortable with our friendship.”
“That is simply untrue.”
“You were uncomfortable before she auditioned.”
“I was concerned about what would happen when your closest friend became my understudy. Everything since then has justified the concern.”
“Nothing has justified believing she tried to hurt you.”
“The letter in my bag did.”
“That proved a prop got misplaced.”
“The oil on my mark?—”
“Proves something was spilled.”
“The smile in the glass?—”
“Proves you saw an expression you interpreted while you were furious and looking for a reason to be.”
Olivia went still. Mason seemed to realize he had pushed too far, but he did not take the words back.
The car stopped outside their building. Mason got out first and came around to open her door, but Olivia was already stepping onto the curb. Pain shot through her knee, and she gripped the top of the door until it passed.
His hand closed around her elbow. “Careful.”
She pulled free. “Don’t.”
The request was quiet, but he released her immediately.
They rode the elevator without speaking. In the mirrored walls, Olivia saw the distance between them reflected from every angle, larger than the few feet of polished brass floor that physically separated them.
Inside the apartment, Mason went directly to the bathroom and returned carrying the red first-aid case. Olivia sat on the edge of the bed because the adrenaline had finally drained away and her body no longer cared about dignity.
He knelt before her and reached for her boot.
“Mason.”
“I’m checking the ankle.”
“The wrist is worse.”
“Then I’ll start there.”
His voice was clipped but careful. He pushed her sleeve back and examined the swelling without touching it, his concentration familiar enough to hurt.
Mason had tended her injuries since college: splinters from scenery, burns from stage lights, an infected blister during a touring production when neither of them could afford urgent care. His hands had always meant safety.
Tonight, even his tenderness felt divided.
He wrapped her wrist in elastic bandage, adjusting the pressure until Olivia told him it was comfortable. Neither of them spoke until he taped the end in place and rested her hand gently in her lap.
“Do you truly believe Lara put the oil there?” he asked.
Olivia looked down at him. He was not angry now. He looked tired, frightened, and desperate for her to offer an answer that allowed their life to return to its earlier shape.
“Yes.”
The word settled heavily between them.
Mason rose and walked toward the windows, then turned back. “Based on what?”
“Everything I have already told you.”
“None of that proves she did it.”
“You asked what I believe.”
“I want you to separate belief from knowing.”
“And I’m asking you to stop treating my judgment as an emotional overreaction.”
His face tightened. “I am trying to keep this from destroying your reputation before opening night.”
Olivia laughed once, softly. “My reputation?”
“You accused your understudy of sabotage in front of the company.”
“I did not accuse her.”
“You told her to get away from you, then argued with Philip about a spill as though Lara had personally confessed.”
“Because no one else was taking the pattern seriously.”
“There is no pattern unless you decide every mistake in the room belongs to her.”
Olivia closed her eyes briefly. They had reached the same wall again, and Mason seemed incapable of seeing that he had built it.
“She told me I had everything,” Olivia said, opening her eyes. “The career. The marriage. She said it as though life had distributed a fixed amount and I had taken her share.”
“That sounds like envy.”
“It is envy.”
“Envy is not attempted assault.”
“No. But it is motive.”
Mason stared at her. “Do you hear how far this has gone?”
“Yes. I do.”
“I don’t think you do.” He paced once to the foot of the bed, then stopped. “Lara has spent her entire career being compared to you. She finally earns a place in the same production, and within a week you are suggesting she is willing to physically harm you for a role.”
“Within a week, I have been injured.”
“Accidents happen in rehearsal.”
“Not always.”
“Liv—”
“You do not want her to be guilty.”
The sentence stopped him.
Olivia rose, ignoring the protest in her knee. “Because if she is guilty, then you brought her into my work, defended her at every turn, and helped convince the room that I was insecure when I was trying to tell you something was wrong.”
“That isn’t what happened.”
“It is exactly what happened.”
“I asked you to give a talented friend an audition. I didn’t hand her control of your life.”
“You handed her access, and every time she used it, you explained the result away in her favor.”
Mason’s face had gone pale. “You are making me responsible for her because I refuse to accept an accusation without evidence.”
His phone vibrated on the nightstand.
Neither of them moved at first. Then the screen lit again, bright in the dim room.
Lara’s name appeared above the message preview.
I’m so sorry. I never wanted to come between you and Olivia. I think I should leave the production before I cause any more pain.
Olivia looked from the screen to Mason.
He did not reach for the phone, but he gestured to it. “Does that seem like someone who is out to hurt you?!”
“She knows exactly when to ingratiate herself,” Olivia said quietly.
“I didn’t tell her we were arguing.”
“You didn’t need to.”
“She could be reacting to what happened at rehearsal.”
“Of course she is. She has written herself into the most sympathetic version of it.”
Mason picked up the phone but did not open the message. “What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing.”
“You want me not to answer.”
“I want you to understand why she sent it.”
“Because she feels unwelcome.”
“Because she knows you cannot tolerate the idea of someone walking away wounded when you could rescue them.”
His eyes lifted to hers. “You think that little of me?”
“No.” Olivia’s anger softened into something sadder. “I think that accurately of you. Your kindness is real, Mason. So is your need to be the person who helps. Lara knows both.”
He set the phone facedown. “I am not answering tonight.”
The concession should have comforted her. Instead, Olivia heard the tonight.
She turned toward the bathroom. “I need a bath.”
“Liv.”
She stopped but did not look back.
“I am on your side,” he said.
The words had reassured her in the kitchen only days ago. Now they sounded like something he needed to believe about himself.
“Then stop standing in front of me every time I try to show you what I see.”
She closed the bathroom door before he could answer.
The water ran hot enough to fog the mirror.
Olivia lowered herself into the tub carefully, keeping her wrapped wrist above the surface while heat eased the stiffness in her knee and ankle.
Through the wall, she heard Mason moving about the bedroom, opening a drawer, crossing into the hall, then returning.
Near midnight, after she had gone to bed, he came in for a pillow.
He did not announce that he was sleeping in the guest room. He simply stood in the doorway holding the pillow against his chest, waiting to see whether she would ask him to stay.
Olivia looked at the empty space beside her. The bed was wide enough for both of them and had been for twenty years, through anger, grief, illness, and the ordinary distances of marriage. Tonight, the idea of lying beside him while he continued to doubt her felt lonelier than sleeping alone.
She turned off the lamp.
A moment later, the guest-room door closed down the hall.
Olivia lay awake listening to the rain. Her wrist pulsed beneath the bandage, and her knee ached every time she shifted beneath the covers. But the image that returned most insistently was Lara’s face in the glass—dry-eyed, composed, smiling only when she believed no one could see.
For the first time since Lara entered the theater, Olivia no longer wondered whether she was imagining the threat.
She wondered how much more damage Lara could do before anyone else believed it.